Call me Stupid in New York - Jo-Ann Carson

Call me Stupid in New York


I thought our problems were behind us. I didn’t think anything else could happen.

I was starting to feel at home in New York.

Stupid, stupid me.

On Thursday, labelled yet again, the hottest day of 2013 in New York City, we decided at noon to go out to get some food. The Amish market is about a hundred yards up the road and has  good air conditioning, so it seemed like a fine idea.

Out we went.  The steamy air on the street collapsed my lungs. When I breathed I couldn’t get the air all the way in, and found myself breathing short. A slime of sweat grew on my body and my mind  drifted into a zone between normal and dazed. Luckily the trip was short. We loaded up with holiday goodies: a pastrami sandwich for PJ, salad, fresh orange juice, organic Monteray Jack cheese, cream for coffee, gourmet cookies… and headed back.

We got to the apartment and guess what? Our keys wouldn’t work on the apartment door. No matter how many times we tried both sets of keys, we couldn’t get in.

Back to the stupid part. I left my passport, phone and info papers all inside. We were just going out for a short trip (not much farther than the bathroom) and I didn’t even consider taking them. We even left the TV on and could hear it playing through the door. How could I be so stupid. I swear it’s a talent.

The Auzzie ladies came by and said hi. We took turns mumbling at, and fidgeting with, the lock. We used PJ’s cell to text, email and  phone our faceless manager who once again ignored all messages of distress. All other contact numbers an info were on my phone in the apartment. Time passed. I contemplated my stupidity and every avenue of escape. We figured we might have to take a taxi to a far away part of Manhattan listed as the address for the apartment management company, but didn’t really want to because we suspected it was another drop spot. About an hour later another neighbor came by and suggested we talk to the Supe.

The Supe? We have a Supe?

Aren’t New Yorkers supposed to be cold and aloof? No time for others and all that crap. I’ve found them to be anything but.

PJ retrieved the superintendent from the third floor. An intriguing man with a stocky build, covered in dirt and sweat. He looked like a construction worker. I loved his sincere eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this,” he said. He tried his keys and shook his head. He tried our keys and shook his head some more. Then he went and got his tools.Gotta love a man with tools. He drilled into the offending lock but still couldn’t get the door to open. So he disappeared for more tools. He returned with a screw driver and within minutes we were in.

PJ asked him how much we should pay him, and he shrugged. “This is my home,” he said. “That’s why I do it.” We slipped him a twenty. “I’ll be back tomorrow with a new lock and charge the owner.” We smiled.

We’d been in the hot hallway for a couple of hours. I got a headache that wouldn’t quit. We were tired and hungry. But boy were we happy.

That’s the latest from our saga.


On a happier note. The second night we were here we went with Pat (her latest book was featured a couple weeks ago on this blog) to see The Phantom.

DSCN2171With thirty minutes left before the show, we ordered appetizers at The Hard Rock Cafe in Times Square (Bruschetta and Spring Rolls – yum).

Then we wandered around the corner to the Majestic theater for the show. 215px-Phantom

It was fantastic! I cried right through the opening as the chandelier came flying over the audience and the music boomed into the room. Oh my goodness. It was spectacular.

On the way back to the Hyatt we could’t get a cab. We hailed them all, but none stopped. Pat had the prettiest shoes on, but they cut into her feet and by the time we got back she had a whopper blister to help her remember the night. Pat later found out that there were fewer cabs on than usual because it was a Muslim holiday.

The photos below are PJs pics of Time Square.

DSCN2178  DSCN2168